“And so he was raised there,” she continued. “My grandfather became a clerk, and married, and my father was born. He in turn eventually returned to Scotland and studied to become a physician in Edinburgh. Before my grandfather died, however, he revealed his true identity to him.”
“It would ring truer if he had revealed it to the Lord Lyon much earlier.”
He referred to the authority in Scotland that served much like the College of Arms in England, as arbiter of titles and heraldry. “He was not sure of it earlier. Nor did he hold the land as is required of those feudal baronies. He sought proof, so the lands would be returned to him, and then the title. Sought evidence.”
“Which he did not find before he died, correct? If he had, this claim would not have been delayed by over a generation.”
“In his own mind he was sure enough that he wrote to the king and presented himself as the son of MacCallum of Teyhill. Whatever that letter said, it resulted in the king responding with great encouragement. Had my grandfather lived longer, it would all have been settled then. Only he didn’t live longer. Before he died, however, he gave my father that letter and told him about the history.”
He paced away slowly, thinking. “You have no proof of this except a family story from the sound of it.”
“My grandfather had more, I am sure. It was in the letter to the last king. Only now I am told that letter is lost. Or so Mr. Haversham claims.”
“He has no reason to lie.”
She stood. “Doesn’t he? How awkward it must have been when the king’s men realized who now held that land. Not some other Scot, or even an English lord from the border lands. Not some viscount or baron of recent patent. No, it was a duke. Not any duke. Brentworth. A powerful duke who makes lesser men tremble. The king must have thought it was the worst luck for it to beyou.”
“If you are accusing the king of lying to you in order to avoid an argument with me, you overestimate my influence. He and I have argued plenty in the past over more important matters, but as the king he wins. That is how it works, Miss MacCallum. He and I are not friends and he does not care if I am the object of a claim from a Scottish woman with nonexistent proof.”
“If you and he were not friends, he would enjoy giving me the lands. Instead they are claiming all the proof is gone.”
“That is because it isin fact goneif it ever existed. You should give this up. It will come to nothing.”
“I cannot do that.”
He sighed with deep exasperation. “You have no proof other than a surname that is so common as to be meaningless to your claim.”
“I will find more.”
“How? It all happened almost a hundred years ago.”
“I will find it. My grandfather was not a fool or dishonest. If he wrote to the king, he knew he was the heir. I will find whatever he found that convinced him of that.” She sat again, firmly. “You are the one who should give it up.”
He paced forward and glared down at her. “There is no way that will happen. I am Brentworth. We do not hand over parts of our estate easily, least of all to women with dubious stories about unfounded inheritances.” He made the vaguest bow. “I will take my leave now, lest we have a row. Good day to you.”
“I thought a row was what we were having already.”
With a quelling glance in her direction, he began walking up the garden path.
“Don’t you fear being known as a cheat?” she called after him.
He paused long enough to face her. “Don’t you fear being known as a fraud?”
Chapter Four
The woman was impossible. Irritating as hell.
Eric fumed about the conversation with Davina MacCallum while he rode back to Mayfair. She had been damned sure of her story, considering she had no proof at all. Anyone else would have at least hesitated before all but declaring war. But not Miss MacCallum.
Was she a fraud? Eric had met a few in his day, and they usually showed the same confidence. They had to. Enough questions would be raised that it hardly helped to raise them first.
The notion that she might be perpetuating a bold, audacious swindle had provoked an odd reaction while he was in the garden. Anger, mostly, and—disappointment. The combination resulted in a sensation that discomfited him. What did he care if she was shown to be dishonest? Yet something in him rebelled at the idea.
He never became angry. Well, rarely. Yet here he was riding through London with a jaw so tight his teeth were grinding. He kept seeing her sitting there, the dappled sunlight making patterns on her short locks, calmly explaining how her family should receive those lands.
The English army did not kill children. But he could not say that with confidence, and she knew it. He had not been there, and who knew what happened in every case of heirs of rebels. And whether it ever happened or not, what mattered was what others believed might have happened.
Northumberland back then had been full of Jacobites who supported the Scottish revolt. Catholics mostly. It had been a center of significant rebellion on its own in those years, and many of its own sons had fallen at Culloden. If one wanted to send a child to sanctuary, that would be one place to choose.
